“She-” Hegel began.
“Has and is,” Manfried interjected, “our ward. We’s takin her south to Venetia for a sea captain.”
“Which captain?”
“Bar Goose. Queer name, I’ll allow,” said Hegel, saving his brother the embarrassment of having forgotten their future patron’s name.
“For what purpose is your anonymous ward traveling through the mountains in the cruel of winter? I did not think any wagons braved such high roads this late.”
“To get to that captain, like I just told you,” said Manfried.
“No, no, I mean, what was she doing out here to begin with? A foreign bride? A relative?”
“There you go, speculatin. You question why the sun come up and down like it’s wont?” Manfried went on. “Why cow taste better than horse, and pig better than either? How bout why you’s priest stead a Pope?”
“Manfried!” Hegel’s horror mingled with his usual glee at hearing his brother make others look foolish.
“I ain’t finished. Got us a holy man obsessed with unravelin the design stead a servin it like everythin from eel to emperor does. Why’s we born if we’s gonna die? Why’s there a Hell if Mary loves us all? If we’s slaves to divine plannin, why in fuck’s free will an issue? What sort a test got a pre-seen outcome, then a feigned surprise when some cunts fuck up?”
Martyn’s entire body matched the crimson rims of his eyes, which jutted out of their puffy settings. He stared while Manfried took another swig, a faint whining coming from the priest’s pursed lips. Just when Martyn seemed about to damn them both-Hegel unsure if the noise he kept bottled up was apology or laughter-Manfried finished his speech.
“That’s the kind a rot priests been talkin where we come from. Only talk to themselves, mind you, but word always trickles down, specially when you’s proud as princes and twice’s stupid. You’d think livin as they do, chosen people and all, they’d have more sense than to question a good thing. Heresy is what it is, and worse yet, cowardice. Cryin and carryin on, why, why, why?! I’ll tell you, Martyn, I’ll tell you honest: kind a maggot askin them questions’ too scared to have faith, and that’s how he’s worse than a simple heretic. Ain’t enough his family died, he gotta know why. Why me, why them, why, why, why? Cause you’s a cunt, that’s why. Cause Her Will is inscrutable, and what’s more, none a our fuckin trade. We truck in the flesh, and doin as She commands, showin mercy and acceptin fate for just that stead a raisin them questions what would get you burnt quick you wasn’t wearin robes. Gotta believe in a world without answers, a fate without explanation or apology, or you’s the cuntiest a the cunts and you’s gonna get your precious answer in the fires below!”
The wheels squeaked and the wagon bounced. Hegel sweated, wondering if their load would soon lighten. His brother usually restrained himself around clergy as there were so many hidden heretics infiltrating the Church but this man had shown remarkable charity, what with not being sore about getting shot. Manfried spoke the gospel, though, and if this priest took offense it was proof of his cowardice.
“Amen,” Martyn breathed. “You speak well, Manfried, although I might advise rearranging the order of your points in the future, as most company will not listen so attentively and discern your meaning for what it is. And forgive me if I, through my awkwardness of speech, have implied I do anything but agree wholeheartedly with you. My simple, and admittedly rude, curiosity bested me, but only for a moment.”
“Amen, indeed,” chortled Hegel, sliding his hand off the pommel of the dagger under his cloak.
“Well, it ain’t nuthin,” Manfried muttered, delighted his diatribe had pleased the priest. “Just the truth, unfettered by that fancy and meaningless talk so pleases the countryfolk.”
“As I told you,” Martyn said after sipping the bottle, “although perhaps not clearly enough, it is precisely that sort of double-speak that has divided Christian from Christian to such grave extent that the Pope no longer sits in his proper place but must dwell in the recently tamed wilds of Avignon, and why I was scorned by some of my brethren for embarking on my journey. They would rather accuse each other of heresy than battle real evil made flesh.”
“Cowardice is oft hid under the moniker a common sense,” said Hegel, and the others nodded in agreement.
“And you are correct,” Martyn continued, “shamed though I am to admit it, that there are many in the Church for whom the Will of God no longer suffices, and they damage not only their own salvation but also the sanctity of the entire institution by focusing more on the questions than the answers.”
“What with all them different orders traipsin bout, can’t tell one from another,” Hegel put in, Manfried winded and content to drink and listen.
“That is not so much of a problem as when the divisions become intolerable.” Martyn belched. “The fiend I hunted is indicative of this. I found little support in pursuing a demon that I had seen. Sad times when thwarting corporeal evil sent from the Devil to work his mischief is less imperative than investigating rumors of heresy, when the righteous are not even in their city. I found an ally in Jean de la Roquetaillade, a Franciscan gifted with prophecy, but he was imprisoned for preaching the truth-that the End Times have arrived. I met with him in his cell every time I journeyed to Avignon, further proof, further proof! Concern for the souls of man has been supplanted by a desire for power. I prayed that my quest might bring the Church back together, but before leaving Avignon the last time I found myself a pariah and a laughingstock to those who disgrace His Name through act and word, some whispering I was a secret Waldensian! They denied me an audience with Lord Clement, then again with Lord Innocent, and when I recently returned to implore Lord Urban the same curt dismissal awaited me.”
“Tragic,” said Hegel.
“Tell me, brothers, have you heard of the trial of Formosus?”
Manfried yawned. Hegel blinked.
“Pope Formosus’s desecration is most topical, so I will advise you on what befell him and let you two pious wanderers decide for yourself. Several centuries past, Formosus served man and God as all true popes do, but even then political machinations were at work, and shortly after his death they exhumed him.”
The Grossbarts perked up, such business being their specialty. Hegel forced himself to mind the road while Manfried pried the beer away from Martyn. The priest managed another swig before relinquishing it.
“They accused him of heresy.” Martyn’s eyes bubbled over but his voice did not quake. “Led by Stephen the Sixth, er, the Seventh, those heretics had him disinterred from his holy resting place and held a trial. With his corpse! His soul long seated in Heaven had the humiliation of watching over while they poked his bones and charged him with blasphemy, devil worship, and every other vile falsehood their wicked minds could imagine. Obviously he was unable to defend his remains, and those criminals hacked off the hand which bore the papal ring and stripped him of his vestments. Then they dragged him through the streets, hurled him into the river, fished him out, and scattered his disgraced bones with those of the Jews.”
“Shameful,” said Hegel.
“A travesty never to be forgot,” said Manfried.
“I often fancied if I were to become Pope, I would petition for the name Formosus,” Martyn mused.
“Hey now.” Manfried lightly elbowed him. “Ain’t someone forgettin their place at the table?”
“What? Never! I simply, er, as Augustine said-”
“Easy on, Martyn.” Manfried laughed. “Just meckin up your words. Cowardice is questionin your fate, courage and honor is strugglin to change it.”
“But fate is immovable,” said Martyn.
“Usually, yeah, but Her Will is for us to struggle and persevere, and part a that is to know the difference twixt what you’s tricked into thinkin fate is and what it actually be.”
Martyn squinted at Manfried. “Tricked?”
“I reckon it’s somethin like this,” Hegel piped in. “You think your fate’s to
struggle gainst heresy back in Roma or Avignon or wherever, but your real fate’s to chase a demon up into these hills. So you follow your fate, even though all the rest tries to tell you fate says to stay put.”
“Is that what I meant?” Neither brother was sure if Manfried was genuinely asking or being contrary.
“Perceived fate and actual fate. Free will. Heresy. Cowardice.” Martyn slumped forward and vomited all over their feet. Manfried kept him from falling under the wheels and winked at his brother. This priest did not seem a bad sort.
“What kind a priest you reckon he is?” Hegel asked his more worldly kin in their private dialect.
“The superior kind.” Manfried shrugged. “From his tale I speculate he’s one a them Dominicans. Probable, given his prattlin on matters heretical.”
“Oh.” Hegel quieted, not wanting to sound foolish by asking more.
“Not exact on how he come to be priest in the eyes a men other than the Holy Fucker above,” Manfried ruminated. “Can’t picture no cardinal nor bishop nor whoever thinkin he’d be fit.”
“But you said yourself he seems a the finer stuff,” Hegel pointed out.
“Yeah, but definitions vary.”
Even buried beneath snow the road remained obvious by the indentation, but they could no longer make it out more than thirty feet in front of the lead horses. Martyn shifted in and out of consciousness between the Grossbarts, ranting on matters Manfried assured his brother would amount to blasphemy in lesser company. This amused them, and they goaded him on as he never disparaged the Virgin, only bishops and priests and monks and orders of monks and nobles and serfs and yeomen and even horses.
They never found his fallen steed but they did not encounter any wolves, either. That night Manfried slept through the darkness, with Martyn filling in for him to make penance for his earlier embarrassment. Knowing the oats would keep longer than the furry bread, they abstained from porridge and cut the moldy taste of the loaves with moldier cheese. The spoiled rye had the odd effect of bringing them vivid dreams, dreams that often arrived before they even drifted off.
Unaware of the source of their visions, all three continued to munch the stuff through the next day, which brought on wilder talks and images. Many times Hegel could not see the horses let alone the road but he kept that to himself, and the beasts trod on without event. The snowy peaks undulated around them, and Manfried and Martyn fiercely debated what this presaged. The snow appeared to rise from the ground instead of fall to it, and each man at times fell into giggling. They did not realize they had stopped until all wore an extra hat of powder, and then started moving again only to spite the lazy horses.
None was sure if they truly entered a wood until they sat around the biggest fire they had kindled since leaving the tavern, and the pine-bough canopy, after dumping its pale payload on their first blaze, kept further snow from drifting onto them. Wolves howled and they howled back, Martyn loudest of all. Of a sudden mind to impress upon Martyn the seriousness of their crusade, Manfried told the priest of their ancestral duty to deny the Infidel anything a Grossbart might covet.
“Prester John,” Martyn said incredulously, “is your grandfather?”
“Ain’t got no kin name a John,” said Manfried.
“But you say he is Christian king dwelling beyond the lands of the Arab?”
“Truth be told,” said Hegel, “we dunno if he’s king or just kingly rich, nor where he lays his beard. We’s yet to make his acquaintance.”
“We’s gonna find out soon enough, mind you, and show him up besides,” said Manfried. “Get us enough loot to make our granddad look like a dirt-handed turnip digger.”
Martyn laughed. “But stories of Prester John’s kingdom date back decades, centuries!”
“Grossbarts been goin south since Moses was a pup.” Manfried glared at the priest. “I told you he weren’t no John nor Preston nor what, so shut your fuckin mouth fore I hang you up like a scarecrow for them hill-dogs!”
After a desperate pause-wherein both brothers subtly fingered the handles of their weapons, even Hegel unwilling to allow anyone but himself and his brother to disparage their kinfolk-Martyn spoke:
“Well, pardon my fucking mouth!” and then all three were again hooting with unnatural laughter.
Late in the night the sweetest music either brother had ever heard swam out of the wagon, and then Martyn awoke raving and attacked the nearby trees with his fists. Neither brother intervened but instead broke out bottles and heartily enjoyed the spectacle. Only Manfried noticed when the music abated, and he covertly peeled the ice from his cheeks. In the morning he shamefully realized he had not checked if she still sat in the wagon since the day before.
Martyn had excused himself to clean his habit and Hegel snored beside the coals, allowing Manfried to stride guilelessly to the rear of the wagon. He rapped twice on the frame, then clambered inside, closing the flap behind him. Inside he could see only shadows of shadows but heard her breathing and smelled her musky-sweet sweat, an aroma that made him hungry.
“Uh.” He swallowed. “That’s a fine way a singin you got.”
Her clothes rustled and he thought he made out her teeth glittering in the dark. His own sweat stinging his eyes, he suddenly felt uncomfortably hot. Bracing himself, he leaned in until he felt her breath on his cheek, a cool draft in the sweltering wagon.
“Could you… if you… uh, sing it again?” Manfried felt a fool. “Please?”
Her breath came faster and cooler, a vaguely familiar scent tickling his nose hairs. Then Hegel bellowed beside the wagon and she drew back deeper into the darkness. Anger consumed Manfried and he burst out of the wagon, startling Hegel and the returned Martyn. Under their curious look his rage dissipated and he mumbled about getting an early move on. Hitching up the horses, he did not notice Martyn pressing Hegel aside.
“Does he often slip into the interior when you sleep?” Martyn asked.
“Mind your mind,” Hegel retorted. “Priest shouldn’t think such impureness.”
“A man must tame himself before endeavoring to tame another. For the sake of his soul, we should be vigilant.”
“For the sake a your teeth, I’d be a touch more vigilant a lip. That’s all I’ll say, save my brother’s purer than you or I.” Hegel sullenly climbed onto the bench.
Martyn made the sign of the cross before the wagon and followed after. They broke bread and the bread broke them, that day and those that followed blurring into a harrowing passage not only through the mountains but also deeper, less explored regions. The Fire of Saint Anthony branded their brains, and only fortune spared their extremities from the toxic rye-except for a toe of Martyn’s, which fell out of his boot when he removed it to examine the uncomfortable tingling. For two days solid Hegel confused Martyn with the Virgin Herself, usually frightening the priest but occasionally convincing him that he was indeed the Bride of God.
If not for the sensible horses they would have become lost, but to Hegel’s chagrin they refused to advance over the precipices or up the streambeds he led them to. Cursing them, he screamed until lights flared up around them but their tusks and legions of legs frightened him dreadfully, dampening his enthusiasm to engage the equines in combat. Mary told him many secrets as they traveled, things that made him froth with anger and cry in despair. Her uncanny resemblance to Nicolette the witch ceased to upset him after the first day, although it kept his thoughts chaste throughout the ordeal.
Manfried once mistook the falling snow for gold and would have tumbled to his death in pursuit had Martyn not convinced him it was a diabolical trap, adder-spit dyed yellow to fool the honest. Manfried crawled under a blanket for several hours to keep the poison from his flesh. When Hegel addressed the priest as the Virgin, Manfried briefly shared his brother’s delusion before realizing her to be an imposter, the genuine Mary resting inside the wagon. The things She whispered to him were perhaps the only possible words to make a Grossbart blush. At night, when none truly slept but r
olled and raved beside a fire which might have existed only in their minds, Manfried crept under the wagon and prayed until he went hoarse.
Being of the clergy Martyn had a monstrous appetite but it could not contest with that of the Grossbarts, the result being he consumed less bread and could function somewhat like a normal man. While he did not match their hunger, however, his imagination had fed on many tracts over the years and so his visions compensated in wildness what they occasionally lacked in vibrancy. For the demon-hunting holy man their travel led over mountains of ash and through clouds of sulfur, steam and venom raining upon them, the wails of the damned giving them no respite. His beloved Elise remained absent but Saint Roch harried their wagon, his moldering corpse demanding the return of his stolen finger. Martyn hurled the relic into the snow, shrieking his remorse for his own graveyard indiscretion. His speech drifted among the dialects and tongues he had learned, along with a few hybrids of his own devising. A test, he moaned to the lost souls riding beside him, a final test before the glory. Although it meant his damnation, he did not correct the fallen seraphim beside him when the radiant creature addressed him as Mary, Mother of God. He knew himself to be Mary Magdalene, and was ashamed.
Unlike natural dreams, these horrors did not vanish instantly upon their waking but tormented them day and night, subtly fading in intensity until their absence maddened the trio more than their presence had. Stopping the horses late in the third afternoon of their psychosis, Hegel stumbled down to simultaneously vomit and shit while his brother unhitched the horses for the first time in days. The miserable creatures were famished and blistered, the expression of their huge eyes launching the Brothers into another giggling fit. Martyn stayed on the bench, praying and weeping until the Grossbarts started a fire.
The next morn they realized they had left the peaks behind in favor of gentler slopes and would probably not die in the mountains after all. After again reprimanding himself and again checking on the lady who again smiled sweetly at him and batted her eyes, Manfried again readied the horses. Unlike the previous day’s gloom and silence, the Brothers and Martyn enjoyed the rough road and biting wind and gruel-turned stomachs.
The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart Page 18